Just A Word
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: One word. Five letters of the alphabet. On paper they appeared innocuous, black and white like any other word...


**A/N: Many thanks to johnsarmylady for her story, Freak Like Me, that reminded me about this small expose, and for her kind offer to look the piece over and reassure me it was acceptable to post.**

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Freak. One word. Five letters of the alphabet. On paper they appeared innocuous, black and white like any other word.

Sherlock stood outside and studied the abandoned factory that at one time had been a hub of activity in the manufacturing of specialised small engines. Now silence commandeered the gutted structure. Broken windows with the glass smashed out and doors that no longer hung by their hinges but rested, splintering, against the outside of the brick exterior, spoke of the long years of neglect. Tufts of grass sprouted both inside and outside the building, subsisting on the dusty dirt piles that had formed over time. Yet there was nothing unique about the factory. It was simply one of many that had suffered the ravages of change. Stripped and bare with nothing left worth restoring. Best to demolish it in order to make room for new towers.

The young, slender detective in front of the factory had no mind to the plight of the building though. He'd come to investigate a crime scene at the request of Detective Inspector Lestrade. Inside the body of a middle-aged man had been discovered. Scotland Yard had been at a loss as to explain why a well-dressed man, clearly from the upper crusts of society, should be found in such a desolate location, plainly murdered. It had been Sherlock, called in as a consultant, who had ultimately unearthed the mystery. He'd pointed out the subtle clues they'd missed. His deductions based on the calluses of the hands, a tattoo on the arm, and the unusual fatal wound, provided a clear picture of the killer and even suggested the motive. All that remained was brute police tenacity to rein in the suspect and then bask in the glory of another example of the intelligence of Scotland Yard.

No one seemed to care about the hero of the solution despite his astonishing deductions. Lestrade merely brushed his hand through his hair with a sigh of relief that none of his forensics team had departed in a post-insult huff. He wished he didn't always have to call in the controversial cranium.

The evening was softly descending upon the city as Sherlock ducked out from under the dilapidated beams that gaped eternally open, serving as the point of entry and exit despite having long lost its protecting door. The dusky hues of the sunset accented the red brickwork of the building and painted the landscape in faint shades of pink and gold. Although it was not in his disposition to appreciate nature, he acutely sensed the beauty of the scene shatter at the acrid tones of Sally Donovan muttering, "freak!" at his approach. He snapped off his latex gloves and tossed them unceremoniously under the yellow crime-scene tape. "Back to the circus or off to plan a murder?" she sniped.

"Neither," if you must know, Sherlock replied, his lip curling up in distaste. "However, if I were to plan one, you'd be the first to know." He stalked away not bothering to enjoy Sally's confused expression as she contemplated what he might have meant by that last comment.

He tucked his scarf tighter round his neck and flipped up the collar of his coat against the biting chill that clawed at the edges of his mind. The icy slivers of Sally's sarcasm pierced his armour of indifference. They sliced through everything tender and added to the festering wound at his core. Other arrows, other taunts, lodged deep. "Just words," Sherlock told himself, casing another layer of iron around his heart. Less feeling, less pain.

But it wasn't only the one word. An endless string of divergences cut off the brilliant detective from others. One man verses the world. His brain was intrinsically wired differently. He couldn't understand them. They didn't even try to comprehend him.

"Taxi," Sherlock waved a cab and smoothly slipped into the cloak of the dim interior, closing the door upon the crime scene and the hateful words. He couldn't shut out the loneliness. Tumultuous confused, clouds of darkness, sentiment versus logic, fought violently. Too many thoughts. He stared blankly out the cab window. As the night ensconced itself securely on the city, store front windows turned on neon signs and a kaleidoscope of flickering colours lit up the darkening streets, muting the forms of the multitudes, each one wrapped in their own impenetrable thoughts and scattering in every direction. A living humming sea of humanity. So many people. Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back seat sinking into the cushion, disappearing. Logic said that at least one of those people might care.

Logic was wrong. Sherlock entered his old mind houses, smallish and rather shabby flats that had stored his memories before he moved to his newly designed mind palace. Memories from childhood, primary school, and University greeted him. The scenes replayed sights, sounds, and emotions he'd long ago locked up due to their painful content.

"Isn't there someone else who can join the team, Sherlock's no good; besides, we had to take him last time we played football," the boyish voice of his school sport's team leader whined in protest.

"Yea, sure, we'll call you later," a chorus of old University classmates echoed. They never did call him. They only came for his encyclopaedic knowledge when they required a passing grade. "Must run," they'd claim if anything of his personal life came up. No one bothered to listen. No one appreciated him for who he was on the inside. They used his brain and discarded his heart. "Piss off," they said when he attempted to impress them with more than answers to the next chemistry quiz. His intentions were always misinterpreted. Finally he changed his intentions to match their expectations.

A strand of sorrow curled round his heart as the scenes repeated even after his graduation from University. It didn't matter if he tried or not. He was always the puzzle piece that didn't fit into the geometric collage. "Stupid sentiment," he breathed.

He closed the door on his mind-thinking grounds. Alone. Strange. An anomaly. He would continue to flirt on the outskirts of society. Tolerated because of his brains. Accused of not having a heart. The bustle of the city streets did not whisper kind words.

The cab pulled up at his current lodgings. Mindlessly he paid the cabbie and stepped back into the noise of everyday life in London. He slowly climbed the stairs to his room. Unlocking the door, he unwrapped his scarf and coat and tossed them aside. He flopped wearily onto the sofa. The icy slivers of loneliness pulsed through his veins shooting cold arrows into his heart. Unshed tears froze within and left him numb. He yearned to feel warm again. He paused, but at last the cold prevailed and he reached for his needle and syringe and that forbidden solution. No one cared anyway. Freak.

**~i~**

Friend. One word. Six letters of the alphabet. On paper they appeared innocuous, black and white like any other word.

Sherlock stood outside and studied the quiet school, closed for the holiday. During the semester, a hub of activity; but now, dominated by silence. The windows were dark and the doors were closed on the brick façade that formed a sturdy edifice against the elements. The bushes were trimmed expertly and the grass was neatly mowed. There was nothing exceptionally special about the school. It was just another structure where young bright minds congregated to amass information.

The young, slender detective in front of the school gave little thought to the exterior aspects of the building though. He'd come in response to the demands of a London cabbie. The allure of answers to a string of apparent suicides had induced this precarious position on his part. Following the cabbie into the school, to an empty classroom, he played the game. A life and death game of chess. A good pill and a bad pill. His observations and deductions discovered a cabbie with an aneurysm and an unknown sponsor. They failed to rein in his reckless desire to prove himself in a gamble with his life.

Someone cared though. In spite of his wild disregard for self-preservation, someone shot a bullet that killed his enemy and saved his life. Lestrade and his men considered how much effort to put into pursuing the identity of the shooter. Finally, he shrugged the questions away for the time being. He didn't wish to cross purposes with the controversial cranium.

The evening had long descended upon the city as Sherlock sat with his orange shock blanket. The flashing blue hues of the police vehicles reflected off the checked colours of the ambulance. Although it was not in his disposition to discount his deductions, he abruptly broke off his litany. "You know what, just forget everything I just said. Ignore me." He flapped his orange blanket, "It was the shock talking."

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called after him as he strolled over to a lone, ex-army man.

"I just need to talk about…the rent," he replied over his shoulder, not bothering to observe the bemused expression on Lestrade's face as he watched the receding figure of the young detective. Lestrade was not blind to the bits left unsaid.

Sherlock chucked his orange shock blanket and tucked his hands into his pockets. The calm, blue eyes gazing at him sent warm shivers splintering through his armour of indifference. They pierced to his festering core and lodged, healing everything tender. Past arrows, past taunts, melted away. "So much more than words can express," Sherlock admitted to himself as a layer of iron unfurled from around his heart. Feeling.

But it wasn't just the one look. A continued acceptance of his eccentricity united the brilliant detective with this other man. No longer just one man versus the world. Their brains were intrinsically wired differently. He was gradually beginning to understand. The other tried to comprehend him.

"Dinner?" Sherlock turned to his new flatmate. They quickly slipped away into the surrounding crowds and darkness, closing the door upon the crime scene and murder. He couldn't shut out the feeling of belonging. Confused clouds of sentiment and logic melded together. So many new thoughts. He walked in-stride with the other man.

The night was already securely ensconced upon the city, store front windows with neon signs created a flickering kaleidoscope of colours that lit up the dark streets and muted forms of the multitudes, each wrapped in their own impenetrable thoughts, scattering in all directions. A living humming sea of humanity. So many people. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked surreptitiously at the man walking at his side. Logic said such a person was unlikely to care.

Logic was wrong. The scenes of the last few hours played out in his mind palace. Memories of chasing the elusive suspect through the streets of London. Laughing together back at the flat. The gunshot. The look. The scenes overshadowed the more hurtful past.

This odd doctor listened. He accompanied him on his investigation. "That…was…fantastic!" he'd exclaimed after Sherlock finished extrapolating the man's family history from the clues on his mobile phone and tan lines on his wrists. His intention, for once, was not misinterpreted. Expectations matched intentions.

A tendril of joy curled round his heart as the scenes repeated themselves in his mind. He was still a puzzle piece that didn't fit into the general geometric collage. But now he was a puzzle piece that had found its neighbour. "Sentiment," he breathed.

He closed the door on his mind-thinking palace. Together. Alike. A complement. He would continue to flirt on the outskirts of society. Tolerated because of his brains. Accused of not having a heart. The bustle of the crowds was not kind. But one man cared. One man knew the heart behind the brain. He whispered kind words.

The cab pulled up at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock forgot to pay the cabbie as he stepped out into the noisy streets of London. He quickly climbed the stairs to the flat. Unlocking the door, he unwrapped his scarf and coat and tossed them aside. He flopped, full and satisfied from a delicious meal of Chinese food, onto the sofa. The fiery slivers of comfort pulsed through his veins wrapping warm wisps around his heart. Unshed tears melted inside leaving a sensation of vulnerability. He yearned to feel again. He paused, at last the tender pulsations prevailed and he reached out a hand toward John Watson. He cared. Friend.


End file.
